


Crying Wolf

by abbichicken



Category: The Prisoner (1967), X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Spy, Amnesia, Crossover, Depowered, Developing Relationship, Gen, M/M, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Secret Identity, Whose Universe Is It Anyway?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-09-24
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2017-10-24 00:26:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/256779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbichicken/pseuds/abbichicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the new Number 2 addresses Number 6 as "Erik", claiming to know him, Number 6 can't work out what game this man is trying to play. When Erik doesn't appear to recognise Charles, and, on top of that, Charles finds himself depowered, he finds himself increasingly unsure of everything, fearing they are both trapped in The Village.<br/>___</p><p>No knowledge of The Prisoner necessary, but YouTubing 'The Prisoner Opening Sequence' and watching those 3 minutes will help this make considerably more sense. Largely written in Portmeirion, so some directions and descriptions will reflect the RL 'Village', rather than the precise layout in the show. Lengthy fic, 12+ parts, mostly already written, further characters to be added to tags as they appear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arrival

He awakes with a start. It's as if bursting through the surface of deep water, having come up just a little too quickly - not quite the bends, but a definite punch of nausea, coupled with the sensation of pressure behind the eyes.

He's fully clothed and has clearly been asleep for some time; folds of jacket have left a soreness at his ribs; his trousers are tight, twisted uncomfortably around his right thigh, and his belt is digging into his hip.

There is little time for discomfort, though. He leaps out of bed - his bed, in its usual place in his flat; he looks around in instinctive concern - his furniture, his things, all as per usual, but something is definitely wrong, something is very wrong, the light is...it doesn't feel...the air isn’t…

...as he rips open the curtains, a well-trusted thump of always accurate dread beating through his heart, and, more so than ever before, the anxiety is so much more than justified.

Everything shoots into sharp silence. He can’t breathe. His eyes widen. He looks left, right, cranes his head to the edge of the window as if the reality he’s looking for might somehow be just around the corner, at the edge of the scene.

It isn’t.

The view he’s so used to is gone. The view he has is…infinitely opposite.

The horror twists through his veins so cold it hurts.

 _This is not London_.

He stretches out his hand, willing one of the three guns secreted about his flat to his palm, desperate for the instant comfort and backup of a weapon, but nothing happens.

He reaches out again.

Nothing.

Truly nothing, though.

There is no feeling of metal in this room at all.

He clenches and flexes his fist, screws his eyes tight, and pushes his mind through the second-worst imagery he can conjure, and there's still nothing. He can see it, all around him, in the furniture, in the stationery laid out at the desk - _his stationery, at his desk, still_ \- and nothing connects with him. He casts out line after line but nothing will bite. It’s as if his eyes completely deceive him.

It’s as if he’s no power at all.

Sweat starts at the nape of his neck, as his ears prick and his eyes begin to scan the view frantically.

The belongings are his, undoubtedly.

But this - he stares, and stares out of the window, as if staring would make it change somehow - this is not England, at least, it’s no part of England of which he’s ever seen or heard. It isn’t Amsterdam, nor is it Gothenberg. It isn’t Singapore, or Bombay. It certainly isn’t Cairo, and it’s nothing like Hong Kong. It’s too small, too curious to be America, and it’s too quaint, surely, to be Russia.

 _Where am I? What’s happened?_

He flexes his hand again, shifting a hopeless, wishful gaze to an empty nail in the wall. The nail that should hold a portrait of his mother, the portrait he took down, one of the few things he had intended to take with him…

Fragments of memory return, puncturing the dense pressure on his mind, enhancing his neutered terror.

Racing back to his flat in the car. Seizing his briefcase, packing in the painting, the novel he’d bought at the station a week before, his wallet, his Scout knife, and a gun. Searching for his passport...knowing he didn't have much time, looking for paperwork, just the essential documents, and then a rattle, a hissing sound…and then there's only now.

And, here.

Wherever that is.

__________________________

It takes him longer than he’s used to to regain control of himself. Too many shocks at once.

He grasps the windowsill, needing something solid to keep a hold on, to keep focused, and save himself from over-reacting. He gulps air in, can’t seem to get enough of it. It’s too dry in here - there’s a fan winding, somewhere, and the noise is _devastatingly_ irritating, now he notices it…

…he has to get out of here. Has to get outside, at the least.

As he reaches for the door, he notices a card on the side, propped up in the lap of a crudely painted Dutch wooden doll.

 _Welcome to your Home from Home._

What the _fuck_?

As he reaches for the door handle, he notices too late to stop himself from banging his hand on empty space that there is no door handle, and the door, with a click and a whirr, is opening, apparently of its own accord.

There’s a heavy breeze outside, and the sky is grey. He edges out, looking left, right, clocking corners and doorways, of which there seem to be many.

The place seems deserted.

He edges out, carefully, choosing his steps well on the cobbled ground.

Behind him, the little building that contains the terrifyingly accurate replica of his London home is painted in pale yellow, an archway leading from it, lined in blue. In front of him, a line of rough-cut stone steps, leading down through leafy paths to the Village that lies, spread out beneath him.

A small square, lined with benches hewn in white stone. A fountain, elegant, decorative. Statues everywhere. Patches of grass. Countless buildings in Mediterranean shades of pink, yellow, green and blue.

Everything is just a little off-scale. Everything is slightly strange.

And in the distance, there’s a beach. And the sea, eventually, the tide apparently far, far out at the moment. A path, leading around it. A steep hill - perhaps even a mountain, behind the apparently edge of the curious buildings.

A bell chimes, and knocks him out of his wondering. The tower is only metres away, across a small courtyard, and he runs to it, up the narrow flight of stairs that coils around it, looks for whoever might be ringing it, but as he reaches the top of the tower, he sees that it is mechanical, and that there is no-one here, either.

He stares until his eyes are dry from the buffeting winds at this height, and still sees nothing.

The place seems deserted.

But it isn’t.

As he makes his way back down, his gaze fixed on his feet now, needing to keep himself steady and placed as the situation is so dizzyingly peculiar, a crunching, squeaking sound makes itself heard. At the base of the tower, he hides behind it a little, peering around to try to catch the source of the noise without being seen by whatever it is.

Whatever it is sees him immediately. It greets him with a cheery wave.

It’s a thin, thin man, dressed in a black and white striped shirt, sat behind the wheel of what he could only describe as some kind of cart; the type that might transport a man and his luggage along a particularly long train platform, for example.

"Ah, widzę że jesteś nowym Numerem Szóstym! Witaj w Wiosce! Jak mogę Ci pomóc?"

He wasn’t expecting to be greeted in Polish, a language he hasn’t heard in many, many years. Not a language with which he is comfortable, not any more, but he understands the gist of what the man says…and yet, it makes no sense to him at all.

The driver wears, he notices now, a circular badge on his chest, emblazoned with the number 116.

The wind picks up at this level too, swirling and, he would swear - because by this point it’s no stranger than anything else that’s happened to him - pushing him towards the cart.

"Nie znasz Polskiego?” the driver offers, looking a little confused, as if somehow he were not as expected. “Zabawne,założyłem... ale nieważne, mogę spróbować innych języków..."

He takes another step forwards, leaning down, looking deep into the man’s eyes - a laughing dark blue, flecks of yellow dotting the irises so brightly as to be both obvious, and remarkable.

“Wäre Deutsch besser? Kann ich Ihnen helfen? Möchten Sie irgendwohin gehen?”

He catches himself, shocked to hear himself addressed in the German with which he _is_ so very familiar. The man’s accent is excellent; he’s almost certainly a native, but it’s so clear and distinct that he couldn’t place it any further.

He clears his throat, but when he speaks…it is in English.

Because this is not Poland, no, and it is not Germany, but wherever it is, someone knows a little more about him than he might have imagined.

“Are you taking me somewhere? How did you find me?”

“Gut geraten, wie mir scheint. Sie sind im Dorf.”

“Take me to the nearest station. Immediately.”

“Ich befürchte wir sind nur ein Lokaler Service.”

He tries with all his frustration and desperation to bend the frame of the car so that the man will be crushed, so that he’ll have something over him, that he’ll have to drive him exactly wherever will get him where he needs to be, where he was meant to be, a place which was certainly not this…

…but still, nothing comes. His knuckles crack with the effort and he slaps his arm angrily, trying to stop pins and needles from crawling up it. Biting his tongue to keep from losing any more control, he snaps, “Then take me to somewhere where I can find a car that _will_ drive me to the station.”

"Wie ich sehe sind Sie die neue Nummer Sechs. Ich könnte Sie herumführen, wenn Sie möchten? Eine Rundfahrt kostet nur zwei Punkte.”

“I don’t have any credits. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t want to take a round trip of anywhere. I simply want-”

"Sie werden eine Karte haben. Kontrollieren Sie Ihre Taschen. Hier, geben Sie das her. Sie werden sich daran gewöhnen.”

He reaches into the silk-lined pocket of his jacket, even now unable to disobey such polite instruction. Just as he was told, there is a card, thick, sturdy plastic. It’s a light teal, with several holes punched through it. The number ‘6’ is writ large, in red, in its centre.

“Whatever’s going on here, I assure you, I shan’t be the one to get used to anything.”

“Ich bin mir ziemlich zicher, dass ich nicht weiß, was Sie meinen.”

The man stretches out a bony hand and nabs the card from him. Slotting it into a small machine, he allows it to beep, twice, then pulls it out again, and hands it back.

He returns it to his pocket. At least he has something, he concludes.

The man pats the seat next to his, invitingly, and smiles. “Kommen Sie rein, machen Sie es sich bequem.”

Well, he’s paid for it. He might as well.

The cart is too small for his long legs, and the position is undignified, but, as the cart begins to whirr, its electronic motor kicking in easily, it seems strangely fitting.

And he’s paid for this, so it seems. It couldn’t hurt to see what kind of place this is.

“How long have you been here?” he asks the driver, curtly.

“Lange genug! Sie werden sehen, dass wir hier alles haben, was Sie brauchen.”

Something in the totality of his words sends a chill through his veins.

“Hier ist der Dorfladen.”

The driver gestures to a green-walled, cube-shaped building, whose front is dominated by a large glass window, displaying the kind of things you might see at any village store in any village across England. They travel so slowly that he has the chance to notice that they’re labelled in English. This, he thinks, is something. What, he couldn’t say, but it is something.

And still he sees no-one. The shop door sports a sign stating “Open!”, but there’s no further indication that it’s anything of the sort.

The driver nudges him with a sharp elbow, and he jumps a little at the unexpected contact. Number 116 gestures upwards, to a grand, pillared building that stands at the top of the hill, which is lined with a number of curious buildings. A walkway leads to its grand double doors, and at its top -

“Dies ist der Green Dome.”

“The Green Dome. A creative name, indeed. And what, pray tell, happens at the Green Dome?”

“Ich denke, dass werden Sie früh genug erfahren.”

That’s enough.

No more of this.

He leaps out of the cart - hardly a danger at this pace, but apparently dramatic enough. The driver screeches it to an unexpected halt, and calls after his sprinting figure; “Warten Sie! Wo gehen Sie hin? Ich sollte Sie zumindest zurück bringen! Nummer Sechs! Sie haben bezahlt...”

But it’s too late. The man is already running far from him, darting one way and another through the deserted pathways, searching for, and soon finding, the steps that will take him up to the walk that will lead him to the doors of the Green Dome.

Number 116 shakes his head, sadly, and continues on his way to find, hopefully, a more obliging customer. “Manchen Menchen kann man es einfach nicht recht machen. Nun gut. Er wird es hier nicht lange machen mit dieser Einstellung...” he mutters, to the receding winds.

_______________

Number 6 would later come to regret the way he bolted towards the Green Dome. It might, perhaps, have been better, have been less predictable - less _him_ and therefore more advantageous to take his time, to learn more about the ways of this place, to find out, if not where he was, for that, he still does not know, but at least how it worked. Of that, he feels, he’s pretty certain.

The first Number 2 was a smug, unpleasant being of a man, the type that he’s struggled with his whole life, those that have such a sense of entitlement and of their own excellent that the idea that anyone won’t immediately do everything they’re asked to by them is unimaginable. He showed that Number 2 a few things, but, he fears, that rashness, that’s cost him, in the long run.

When, defeated, by his relentless refusal to co-operate, he was surprised to find that within a matter of days, a new Number 2 had been shipped in, airlifted in a shiny, private helicopter the likes of which he hasn’t even seen royalty using. And then when his methods didn’t work out, another. And another. Each think they have the measure of him. Each have presumed he just needs a nudge in the right direction, that they only need to put him in this situation, in the other, and everything they want to know will pour forth.

He’s had a lot of time to think about what kind of man he is, and, worse still, about what kind of man they perceive him to be.

Time passes, but time is a difficult thing to measure in The Village. He counts it in escape attempts, at first. In method and imagination, in false accomplices and near-death experiences.

All of these things become, or seem to become, so numerous, that they are meaningless.

He counts the new Number 2s, ever the adversary, ever the challenge; the innumerable confrontations, episodic and exhausting, some there for just one day, others nagging at him for weeks on end. Occasionally he’s been so toyed with and tested that he has no idea how much time has passed in between, for the Village appears to have no seasons.

And then all this, too, becomes meaningless. The adversaries blend into one another. Some have been preferable to others, but the merry-go-round of goading, tasking, evading and defeating is wearing, even for a man who used to thrive on such things.

After all, he had tried to resign from such a life. It seems as if, for this action, he is to remain subject to an eternity of this bureaucracy.

He has debated telling them the truth. He’s told them plenty of lies. If real truth be told, in places, he’s lost between his own and their lies, the things they’ve said to make him say one thing or another, the things he’s told them to test their willingness to let him go.

In the first instance, he felt that if he would tell them what they wanted to hear, they really might let him go. But, as the game has been played, as the Number 2 has become, in each new incarnation, increasingly devious, in places, even excessive, he’s come to doubt whether they might only want to force the truth out of him to justify…further action against him.

Number 6 does not fear death.

But he does fear _extinction_.

In The Village, to the best of his knowledge, these are one and the same.  
____________

Number 6’s telephone releases its customary buzz at a little before dawn. Rolling his eyes and expecting the worst, seeing it as the heralding of the latest round of ‘fun and games’, he answers, cheerily as he can for a man who’s just leapt from his bed, “Greetings! The new Number 2, I presume?”

“Oo, hello, Number 6! No, I’m afraid not, but he is here now.” The voice is equally cheery, female and pleasant, expressing a brightness that doesn’t fit with the general tone taken by Village residents. “He’d love to have breakfast with you, if you’re willing?”

“Willing? Am I willing?”

“I mean, er, if you’d like to?”

“If I’d _like_ to?”

“I think you’re just repeating what I’m saying. Breakfast, here. With the new Number 2. He’s really looking forward to seeing you again.”

“To seeing me again?” Again? Which of the previous Number 2s might be back? That gives him a sense of deep, deep unease.

“Look, Number 6, I know you’re used to the whole pantomime thing some of my colleagues enjoy, but I’m afraid I’m not very good at that yet, so when I say I’m sure I don’t know what you’re playing at, you’ll just have to believe me. Now. Breakfast will be served in one hour, at the Green Dome. I’m sure I don’t need to give you directions.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Be seeing you!” she intones, satisfied.

Number 6 simply rings off, without returning the farewell.

He tries to count back those who’ve invited him for breakfast, and those whose plots have been unsuccessful, but not sufficiently so that there’s no way the powers that be would let them return. He can’t find any particularly suitable candidate for this.

Either way, at least this won’t be the guessing game that generally accompanies each new arrival. At least he’ll have something to go on, and, after all, breakfast at the Green Dome is always infinitely better than anything he might come by in the Village itself. Certainly, it’s preferable to the old pint of milk he has in his little fridge, and his half-pack of ersatz cornflakes.


	2. Breakfast at Charles'

Number 6 makes his familiar way to the Green Dome, just as he had done on that first day. He no longer throws the doors open; is no longer surprised by the complex formalities of the anteroom, nor by the sliding doors that lead to a sloping, circular room, situated in the heart of that dome.

The round chair has, as ever, its back to him. It seems very few of the new Number 2s can resist the opportunity to rotate into view on their first meeting. Six smiles, anticipating his next challenge.

"At last, Erik," a pleasant, well-mannered voice intones, as if genuinely pleased to see him. "It's so good to see you."

A younger man than usual, in a three-piece suit, foppish hair, a little fuzzy around the edges, legs crossed neatly. Cool, calm eyes. The soft touch, clearly. Six prepares to be sweet-talked to oblivion. At the same time, he also feels a sense of tired calm. This one will, at least be a pushover.

"I think you must be mistaken," he replies, coolly. "My name isn't Erik."

The man smiles. "Of course. But you go by many names, don't you? I've heard them all. To me, though, you'll always be Erik. And, of course, you’ll know me as Charles."

Six tries to hide his confusion, but Two smiles yet more broadly, as if he sees it anyway and is attempting to put him at ease. Six feels a prickling down his spine, and something is not quite right, here.

“Don’t you remember me?”

“Who sent you here?”

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you that it’s rude to answer a question with a question?”

Six suspects that if this man will so casually mention his mother, then not only is it not possible for him not to be any kind of old friend, but that this man must be doing it only to provoke him, and, for fear of revealing a weak spot; he does not rise to it. Besides, any mention of his past could as easily come from a box file as from a memory. Certainly, all of this man’s predecessors have known uncanny amounts about him, explaining, as they went along, often with an accompanying slideshow, that there have been hidden cameras pointed at him at many an unsuspecting time in his life.

“I’m sorry, Erik," Number 2 is already saying, though, his hand coming up to rub regretfully over his right eye, "that was thoughtless of me. I shouldn’t have said that. A bad start, I think. Please, sit down.” He gestures to a blank expanse of flooring, which parts, allowing a small, less grand, regularly-shaped chair to rise up from it. Erik fights the twitch of various facial muscles; the tincture of mild distress and wonder as to whether there is mutant power, or human technology, at work in this place.

He takes the seat, nonetheless.

“Will you have some toast? I’m sorry, I know it’s all usually here when you arrive, but I’ve been too busy enjoying the layout in here to get as far as breakfast. I’ve never seen anything like it, isn’t it magnificent?”

“If you like that sort of thing,” Six replies.

“I would’ve thought this was right up your street, Erik. Smooth, clean lines. All this lovely metal.”

He doesn’t emphasise the word, and Six doesn’t flinch at it, but it punctures the air nonetheless.

Two shrugs, and strokes the control panel, with a cheerful smile that would look genuine to Six, if only Six hadn’t learned the hard way that everyone in this place has the potential to be the most gifted of actors. He lets go a nervous chuckle at nothing, as if the silence is layered. “But the toast?” he asks Six, again.

“Two slices. Butter.”

“My pleasure. Butler!”

The small, balding, excellently-attired Butler appears as if he had been there all along, and it was only the mention of his existence that had brought him into view.

“Two rounds of toast, butter, marmalade for myself, and a bottle of champagne, please.”

“You’ll be disappointed.”

“Disappointed?”

“No alcohol allowed in The Village, didn’t they tell you?”

“Didn’t who tell me?”

“Whoever it is who rings that damn ‘phone of yours.”

Two looks at the line of exquisitely modern Scandinavian telephones, and smiles - his smile is incessant, it strikes Six, as if he has something to be perpetually pleased about. Perhaps he’s excited by the power he’s been given. Perhaps he enjoys role-playing, which, after all, is all this so often seems to be. Most likely he’s received an unexpected promotion, because he certainly doesn’t seem the type to have anything of importance pushed upon him.

“No-one’s called me since I arrived.”

“I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.”

“I’ve always enjoyed telephony. I shall look forward to it.” Again, that smile, as if there were an obvious, excellently-placed joke to be had. Six wonders if this man’s jaw is in some way overdeveloped from all of this gaiety. “But, no alcohol, you say. Well now, this morning, I have a cracking headache that suggests the whisky I had brought to me last night retained every single drop of its intoxicating properties.”

Six takes his turn to smile, aiming for a touch of patronising along with it, and this, it seems, is the catalyst for Two to drop his own.

The Butler breaks their uneven silence, returning through the great sliding doors with an imperial silver tray. He places it on the inconveniently small round table, nods to Number 2, and is about to exit when Two interrupts, “And my champagne?”

The Butler looks intently at the tray.

It bears toast, orange juice, butter and an elegant coffee pot. There is no champagne.

“If you please, fetch the champagne.”

Six grins an _I told you so_.

But his mirth is ruined when the Butler, after a second’s excessive hesitation, departs, and is back in just a moment, with a tray displaying a fine bottle of champagne, wrapped and placed in an ice bucket, accompanied by two sleek crystal glasses that send the light bouncing in sparkles all around the room.

“Thank you kindly,” Two says, and the man is gone. “Now, Erik, do have something to eat, before it’s quite stone cold. I’d hate to be a second-rate host.” He takes up two slices, butters them, slicks both in glutinous marmalade, and tucks himself, easily as if he’d been doing it all his life, into the round chair, legs folded beneath him, strangely childlike, as he eats as hungrily as any man who’s overdone the drink the night before would.

Six exhales, and settles back into his sleek but simple leather chair. It, as with everything in The Village, is perfectly passably comfortable. The toast is similarly pleasant, and the two of them eat in a quiet during which neither look at the other, but everything seems somehow as it should be. All that’s missing, Six thinks, is a copy of the morning newspaper, but the _Tally Ho!_ doesn’t have shareable sections, so that wouldn’t be quite the picture of domesticity he’s half-imagining.

This is, Six thinks, an unusually calm and casual approach from a new Number Two.

The champagne sits in its bucket, awaiting attention.

Meal complete, Six stands again. “If you’ve quite finished, then, I’ll be on my way. I thought I might take a language course this week; I’ve heard we’ve a new tutor in town.”

“Erik, I know you already speak all the languages we could possibly offer here, don’t play me.”

“Isn’t that what we do here, play? But of course; you’re new. You’ll learn.”

“We all have our parts to play, Erik. We all have our parts to play. Now be good, and play along with me. You used to be so good at that.”

Something in the tone of Two’s voice is wistful, and distant, and Six is, he admits, even to himself, intrigued.

“Sit down; drink with me.”

“At this time of the morning?”

“You were the one who told me there was no alcohol to be had, here.”

“And you were the one who begged to differ.”

“There’s only one way to find out. I don’t mind telling you, I shall indeed be disappointed if it turns out to be no more than fruit juice.”

The bottle is labelled with a picture of The Village, Six notes, but nonetheless, in gold lettering, it proclaims to be just that, real Champagne.

The cork pops, and Charles offers, “Pop goes the weasel!” in a manner more chilling than nursery-based, as he catches the foam in one of the slim glasses. He sniffs at it, cautiously, then knocks back a gulp.

He swallows, and laughs with it.

“That tastes about right to me. Here, have a glass.”

Satisfied that it’s unlikely to be poisoned, given Two’s naivete and bright-eyed approval, he takes what’s offered, and sips, curious.

It does, indeed, taste like champagne, and, at that, champagne as fine as any he’s had at any of the better transatlantic soirees he’s attended.

“Well, this _is_ pleasant, isn’t it?”

“Is it?”

“You aren’t having an exceptionally good morning, this morning?”

“It’s a morning like any other.”

“Ah, but in terms of the new number Two, you don’t…you don’t feel…we have a connection, you don’t think there’s something rather good about our meeting up?”

“In what way?”

Two exhales, and drains his glass - no manners at all, Six thinks, sipping, still, at his. Two shrugs. “I suppose I’ll have to do the emotions for us both. Now, Erik - oh don’t flinch, please, goodness, I’m afraid you really must have been through quite some event if you won’t permit me to call you by name; I’ve heard you don’t enjoy the numbering system they operate here (and why would you, honestly, I think it’s cruel, especially given your _history_ ) so I had thought that you and I would get off on a good footing, if only because I’m not one for all of these strange rules they’re asking of us…”

Number 6 tries to read Two’s body language, his eyes, his demeanour, rather than to listen to the torrent of words. On some level, yes, there is a pleasure in being addressed as an equal, as a friend, by someone with whom he can, however peculiar it might seem, imagine knowing, and knowing well. And yes, this is pleasant, as breakfast goes, certainly, this curious metal hub feels less of a mockery, and more of a setting; a room, just a room.

“…do you, Erik?”

Six realises that there was a question phrased amidst all that burbling, and he clears his throat with a thin smile. “I’m sorry; I drifted off there. What was that?”

“Ah, I miss the days when you hung onto my every word…”

“Rather full of yourself, aren’t you?”

Two shrugs. “To be honest, I don’t know what to think. This is…not what I’d been led to expect.”

“What had you been led to expect?”

Two shakes his head. “Ah, you won’t get me that easily.”

“I thought you were here to get me?”

“Quite right, quite right. Tch, you’re clearly more accustomed to this than I. You’ll forgive me whilst I find my feet in this rather…murky world you’ve landed us in, won’t you?”

“I barely understand you, so forgiveness seems a bit far.”

Two laughs, and twines a loop of hair around his fingers, in contemplation.

There’s a silence again, but it’s comfortable. Two pours the remainder of the champagne between their glasses, and they drink, in silence, each occasionally weighing up the other, visually.

The silence is broken only when slender girl with unnaturally red hair, dressed in a preposterously tight blue suit breezes in. Her badge gladly declares her number as being 33. She hands Two a folder (”Here!”), and, pausing only for a moment to look Six up and down as if he were a newly-unveiled statue, whisks out again.

"She's very attractive," Number 6 observes.

"Is she?" Two replies. "I hadn't noticed."

Number 6 nods, deeply, indicating an understanding of a subtext that wasn't there.

Two flicks an eyebrow.

Six keeps his face perfectly still.

Two opens the file, and begins to peruse its contents.

“Well”, Six says, presuming Two has things to arrange, which will, eventually, revolve around pushing for the outcome every other Number 2 has sought, “if that’s all for now, I’ll be on my way.”

Two nods, without so much as looking up. “Of course. Thank you for coming.” Six notices he looks concerned. Good; that ought to give him a couple of days of peace and quiet, with any luck.

Rising, Six looks down at Two, and is almost driven to ask the man if he’s quite alright…he looks rather pale. But he won’t fall for any tricks, and he won’t overinvolve himself, no. The soft touch, he reminds himself, and he exits the double doors without so much as a ‘Be seeing you’.

At least, he thinks, as he trips his way down the rough-cobbled path, back to his own salmon-pink building, at least this one’s interesting, and polite. And he has champagne. It should at least be a nicer challenge than the last. After the grim debacle surrounding the previous Number 2, he had been fearing the worst from this man. First impressions around here are, Six knows, inconsequential, but, nonetheless, he leaves this first encounter feeling, well. Rather _merry_.

As the door to his home closes automatically behind him, Six throws off his jacket, and goes to make a cup of tea.

He doesn’t quite realise the twitching, sinking feeling in his gut as one of confusion, but he will, in time. All in good time.


	3. A Stick of Rock

The infuriating drone of the direct line drowns out the thoughts Number 2 has immersed himself in. He's been tying himself in knots all afternoon trying to find a solution to the problem - an end to the situation, which appears, when you’re actually here on the ground, something so much more serious and unpleasant than the simple mission he’d had outlined to him when he agreed to all this. The way it was explained was much more…much less…and with more… _humanity_ , Charles thinks, that’s what seems to be lacking in this place.

And Erik isn’t…Erik. He’d been warned about that. He was told to expect a different man altogether. Perhaps, he'd thought, this new, improved man had a better nature to which he might appeal. By addressing him by name, rather than number, he'd hoped to establish an equal footing that his predecessors had missed. He still finds it odd to swallow that they felt a place like this would be…appropriate for someone with Erik’s background, but then again, what’s _appropriate_ is, he’s beginning to find, far from the forefront of his superiors’ concerns.

Above all, Charles had been certain that, with the gift of his powers, this would all be over in an instant, and he would be able to tell his superiors not only exactly why it was that Erik had resigned, but, if he decided it would be better, exactly what it was that they wanted to hear.

Why else would they have asked him to come here? Charles wasn’t high-up in the Establishment - he wasn’t exactly a government man, and he certainly wasn’t the type, he was sure, to be assigned this kind of task. Interrogation, conversion, a licence to torment? That just wasn’t anything to do with him; it was miles from his experience.

Because Charles Xavier doesn’t need to do that. All he needs to do is to _look_ to know just about anything.

The trouble is, the second he arrived, and the Butler approached him, all obliged and ready to take the bags that were practically as big as him, Charles tried to take the tone of the place, to tune in to any of the many polo-necked, striped individuals pocketed around the grounds of this curious little place…and he found nothing.

A wall of nothing.

Not even the background noise of another telepath; nothing blocking him, nothing stopping him, nothing weighing him down or drowning him out.

Just. Nothing.

It was as if he were just like everyone else.

So, when Erik had arrived, for a moment, Charles had been so very full of relief, so very grateful to see such a wonderfully familiar face, he’d thought that perhaps there’d been a mistake - or, more importantly, that he’d been mistaken; he and Erik were, after all, on the same side, and this was a test, a challenge, something they’d need to work through together, maybe…

…he doesn’t know what this is, but whatever it is, it’s not what he expected, and whatever that was, it’s a very long way from reality.

He has such a network of people at his disposal, all of whom he has this _feeling_ about - but not a reading, not a telling; he doesn’t know them, can’t just make the connection, so incredibly frustrating, because he has so many questions, and yet, and yet, he can’t get so much as the hint of an answer to any of them.

He doesn’t even know how to ask the question, now. He presumed they knew, that they understood what kind of mutant he is. That wasn’t part of any of their conversations, prior to his Arrival, but he just…assumed. They seemed to know so much about him, so, surely they would know that? Charles hasn’t been living in any kind of hiding. At least, he hasn’t shied away from using his powers in the line of duty.

His nervousness, his sense of abandonment, such as it becomes, unarmed, in this, the strangest of places, grows and shapes into a simmering disquiet, an anger, the likes of which he feels he isn’t generally given to.

He doesn’t take kindly to being made to feel a fool, and how else should he feel, in this ludicrous situation?

Thus it is that when the ‘phone finally rings, he snatches it up in a heartbeat and answers with a sharp “Yes?”

Number 33 watches him take the call, peering into the monitor pointed at the circular room as she straightens out some files in the control room. Two seems agitated, frustrated, dancing around whilst he’s listening to whatever the voice on the other end is saying; pacing uncontrollably and twitching in swift irritation at some apparently particularly difficult points.

He bangs his hand down on the desk at one point, and shouts into the phone. He doesn’t shout very often.

She felt a curious fondness for this new Number Two the moment he arrived. She can’t remember how long she’s been in The Village herself (this doesn’t bother her, though, as she generally can’t remember what happened yesterday); she knows there’ve been other Number Twos, but she doesn’t remember any of them, either. She knows her duties and performs them expertly, and that’s all anyone could ask of her. She knows that, above all, they need to find a way to break Number Six. They need Information.

Number 33 enjoys the sense of importance she feels when she brings key details to Two. As if she’d known him a long time ago. A childhood friend, perhaps. He reminds her of someone she…not owes, but someone who she’s eager to help, to support. She can’t place who the person she’s reminded of is, in fact, she struggles to remember much of her past these days, but that’s probably all the late nights this job involves, and She hopes he’ll ask for her help at some point. She’d like to be more involved. She could totally handle the responsibility. And she always has this terrible, nagging feeling that she should be doing _something_. Surely, it must be to work harder, to achieve more. To help the new Number 2.

He looks like he could really use a little help right now. He’s storming around the place, but saying very little. 33 considers turning the sound up on the monitor, listening in to see if there’s anything she can pre-empt, but decides not to. Some things are private. She wouldn’t want to overstep her mark.

Charles slams down the phone, ringing off mid-conversation because he cannot deal with not being listened to. He’s never had to deal with not being listened to, at least, not like this. He’s never felt so cut off from himself; not being able to use his powers is more than losing a limb; in his case, it’s losing a sense, better, even, a dimension. It’s seeing the world in flat and blank, rather than rich and rounded. It’s seeing and not understanding.

And whilst it is many things to Charles, to be so neutered, what it is most at this precise moment, is confusing. _How,_ he raged down the ‘phone, _should I do what you ask of me when you cut me off from my greatest attributes like this? How can I be of service?_

Just as he said that, _of service_ grated at him. He’s been on side with the fucking secret services for too long already, he’s had too many parts to play in too many stories that weren’t his own and he’s been fifteen kinds of sideways for them in all five continents over the years…for what? What reward?

He has things to do. He was in the middle of something. And he would do a lot for Erik, given their past (that past they had, what was that? It was important…it doesn’t matter right now…does it? No, because what matters right now is what the hell he’s meant to do next…whatever it was that he was doing…)

The thing that worries him the most, though, later that day, after much more pacing and pondering and surveilling and seething and drinking gallons of the gritty, earthy coffee the butler brings in regular abundance, is the single question he feels should have come to mind immediately.

 _If I’m not here to read his mind, why am I here at all? Why, why would they ask me, of all people, to come here and get an answer out of Erik?_

Somewhere in his body there’s a kink and a pulse that tells him that he should know the answer to that question. It won’t come, though. But if it did…this curling internal nudge suggests that the answer would not be a good one.  
__________________________________

 

Six buys a stick of rock from the Village Shop and calls it lunch. He has a sweet tooth, much neglected of late, and cheese sandwiches alone do not make the man. He thinks back to the dinners he used to have, great grand affairs that lasted for six courses and at least as many hours, ending in brandy and cigars and always that same, gaping sense of wasted time. He never even thought to appreciate the food served up to him; after so many years, he could hardly tell one world-renowned chef from another, nor did he care to. And always the work, pervading such occasions. Always the work.

Part of the attraction of his decision to resign - though not a contributing factor to the decision itself, no - was the thought of taking care of himself alone. He'd had a little fantasy of being more domesticated, of pursuing his own goals and aims in life. He's dreamt of writing, perhaps, of making pasta from scratch in a cool stone kitchen somewhere ramshackle and beautiful and distant. He imagined reading, perhaps even writing. He imagined the freedom he'd have, more than anything in his entire life, Six has wanted to feel like a free man, something he's never truly managed in a life structured by first force, then by need and dependence, and, finally, by duty and honour.

But the day came when he realised his life was a betrayal of itself, that everything about who he was was owed, that everything about who he wanted to be, who he _deserved_ to be was being cruelly, criminally undermined. Figuratively and literally. And when the threats began to come in, he couldn't deal with it any more. He didn't have to deal with it any more.

He didn't resign lightly. He only did so when he had no other option. When things...came to a head. So's to speak.

Everything should have been perfect. Everything should have been easy. He had the right to a fresh start - after everything he'd been through, everything _they knew_ he had been through.. He never dreamt, never, despite everything that he had seen and experienced over the years, never imagined that what came next was possible, that they had the power, the sheer weight of imagination to pull of something like The Village.

He sucks thoughtfully at the rock. It's stale; he wonders how many years this batch has been gathering dust on the shelves. He washes it down with a half cup of cold coffee left over from this morning. Its bitterness matches the clenching stickiness of the rock as pleasantly as such a thing possibly could.

The lack of entertainment is exhausting. He wasn’t joking about the language course - he’s heard tell there’ll be lessons in Swahili this year, and if it weren’t for the fact that that sounds like the kind of thing that could as easily turn out to be another, devious plot to ensare him, he would have signed up wholeheartedly and immediately. He enjoyed East Africa, when last he was there. Metal manipulation served him well in Kenya, and bought him constant appreciation. It’s somewhere he’d factored into his future, as little as he’d planned it at all. Perhaps it’s no coincidence that Swahili is on offer; a nod to the fact that the Powers That Be know all things and more about who he is and where he was going…bar, of course, the technical details behind his resignation. Just that.

If he truly believed that those details were all that were keeping him here, he might yet consider divulging them.

The trouble is, the longer he’s here, the more those facts seem to be not only all he has that are his own, but are all he has left keeping him alive.

If he told the truth, even for a moment, it might be so shattering that they wouldn’t so much as hesitate before clearing him from existence.

There are days when he wonders if they already have; if this is some kind of purgatory, the last step before the infinite sleep, but then again, if that is what this is, there’d be no way of knowing. He’s never been willing to risk everything without absolute conviction. It’s not his style.

He toys with the idea of attending the seminar this afternoon. There’s nothing else to do. Number 2 hasn’t called him, and he’s still feeling the effects of the champagne from this morning -he’s sleepy, and uncharacteristically heavy. Not as if drugged, no, just that pleasant sensation of post-morning drinking, something he hasn’t known in so long. The temptation to embrace it, rest and stare at the details of his home - so correct, so out of context - is considerable.

His greatest fear has been succumbing to the ease of Village life. Being a part of the furniture. He presumes that either this is what the other, oh-so-occupied occupants have done, or that they have been in some way recruited solely for his benefit. Still, as time passes, he has come to conclude that there’s no way that something that operates on the scale of the Village can have been constructed only for him. The information he has to offer is considerable, but it doesn’t merit the millions of pounds and hundreds - thousands - of personnel required to make this place real.

The idea that he would live here…forever? Settle down? What, two kids and a dog and a number on his chest and no name for evermore? No, that won’t happen.

Not least because he has seen neither children, nor dogs, in all his time here.

“You’re missing a trick, Number 2,” he muses, out loud. “I always wanted a Border Collie.”

Charles is too busy to be listening to this.

He’s pacing, furiously.

"Hello?"

"Hello? Number 33, isn't it?"

"Well, duh?" the redhead says, gesturing to her prominent badge displaying the number, firmly, irremovably affixed to the left breast of the tight navy minidress she's so attractively sporting. "And you're Number 6!"

"Ah, you're not going to refer to me as Erik?"

She shrugs. "Would you like me to refer to you as Erik?"

"Not particularly. I don't suppose you know why Number 2 is so fond of doing so, do you?"

She cocks her head to the side, as if thinking, deeply.

"He's a strange one, the Professor. None of us really know why he does anything much at all... I think it suits him, here. I'm not sure he knows it yet."

"You speak of him as if you know him well."

"Oh, no. We only met when he arrived in The Village. Just a matter of days, really, but, of course, I've spent some time with him, updating him on your latest habits, movements and so on. And trying to convince him that we need a little more activity around here - I'm thinking a hockey match, or perhaps some tennis. Do you play tennis?"

"I have played tennis."

"Oh great, I'll tell Char-...I'll tell Number 2."

Number Six flicks an eyebrow at her slip of the tongue, attributing it to some kind of girlish crush, or, of course, a deliberate attempt to mislead him somewhere or other. He made a mental note at first sight of this girl not to trust a word she said, but it seems as if she might at least offer some light relief.

"You ought to go and do that, indeed. I've things to be getting on with."

The girl laughs, and she sparkles, Six thinks, with the sort of life force you don't see too often around here. She seems genuinely happy.

"You like being here?" he can't help but ask.

She pauses her laughter, as if she couldn't finish it and think all at once. Then she nods, small, but emphatic motions. "Yes. Yes, I feel so...useful. I fit in here, perfectly."

"How curious an answer..."

"It is?"

"Most of the women I have known would do anything to stand out from a crowd."

She bites her lip, as if unsure as to what to think about that, or, at least, unsure as to how best to reply.

A little silence falls, awkward. He waves a hand dismissively, indicating, he hopes, that he is no more interested in pursuing the conversation than she.

"Will you have a cup of tea?" he asks, feeling unusually...hospitable towards her. She hasn't so much as told him why she's here, after all.


	4. Take A Walk With Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles, the current No. 2, continues his complex circling of No. 6 - Erik. An afternoon stroll is discourteously interrupted.

"Erik...Erik, wait..."

Six continues to march ahead, scaling the stone steps easily, two at a time in long strides. Charles feels as if he's trotting to try to keep up. 

"Please..."

Six smiles, and pauses, for a moment, looking back over his shoulder. 

It's not like a Number 2 to be so...plaintive. 

"Erik..."

"That's not my name."

"Oh, Erik," Charles sighs, swallowing his out-of-breathness as best he can, wiping the prickles of sweat from his forehead. 

"I see you've no interest in humouring me, then..."

"No, not really. Alas., There's a few more important things ahead of us. Might we...continue up?"

"How about you tell me what these important things are all about?"

"Not here. Cameras."

"You think that it won't be strange for your superiors to see us meeting like this, then heading off to, I suppose, a more secluded area (although I've never known such a thing here; I shan't believe you if you tell me there's somewhere we can speak plainly and safely, but for the sake of entertainment, I may yet hear you out if you play your cards right...); you want to go somewhere more private, and I'm supposed to simply...concur?"

"They warned me you were difficult, stubborn, even, and I laughed because oh, Erik, I _know you_ , but right now, you're so very far from the man I knew. Where did - but wait, no. We must stop this. Come, upwards. Small talk."

"Always a speciality of mine."

"I'm amazed that you would think so."

"You speak as if I were someone else altogether. Whatever your game is, know that I have no interest in playing it."

"Please, just walk."

Charles steps ahead, reaches back and clutches at a fold of Erik's heavy jacket, pulling him along. 

There's a flicker, just for a moment, of something absolutely incomprehensible to them both. Both ignore it, outwardly, but Erik follows without another word. Charles doesn't drop his hold for just a little longer than might be necessary. Six doesn't mind.

Their surroundings grow greener, the leaves turning dense, the steps giving way to a steep and winding path through increasingly forested land. Unexpected plants crop up here and there - ferns, orchids, perennials and here and there a palm tree. There's weight to the dusk-scented air, rendering it thick enough that you might try to bite it; rain is coming, but it's not here yet. It seems no-one's walked this way for a while - footsteps crackle and twigs snap easily underfoot. Hardly the stuff of great secrecy, but perhaps that doesn't matter right now. Perhaps. Six still thinks it's odd to go wandering with Two, but he's long since learned that you have to pick your questions in order to get so much a shred of an answer. 

"Are we going somewhere special?" Six asks. 

"We're going somewhere, yes. Special, that's rather more qualitative."

"Hence the question. And when exactly did you have time to discover this place?"

"I don't sleep a great deal. I have too much to do." Charles smiles this rich, inward smile that suggests he's wistful for something, somewhere else.

Six can't help himself, and, in an uncharacteristic burst of self-indulgence, allows himself the briefest of moments to think of something, somewhere else, as best he can. The intensity of feeling that envelops him is so shocking that he cans it immediately; there isn't space, even out here, for such contemplations. Certainly he shouldn't be embracing them in the presence of Two. Definitely not in the presence of this two, whose angle he has yet to pinpoint.

The path peters out after another fifty yards or so, and they tramp more carefully, kicking here and there at the vegetation as it does its best to impede their progress. 

“This small talk’s going well, isn’t it?” Charles offers, hoping to pass this time in something more than discomfort interspersed with puffs of vegetation-related frustration. 

“Beautiful weather we’re having?” Six offers up. 

“You think so?” Two looks at him, confused, and offers a hand as Six drops his footing a touch, skidding on a slick of leaves and mud. “I don’t care much for it myself. Too tropical. Reminds me of long nights in Singapore.”

Six tries not to prick up his ears at _Singapore_ , a place he has plenty of fond memories of. He wonders what connection this man has with it, or if it’s a ploy to dig out the smallest of tidbits from him, based on a piece of information from his file. Files. He searches his memories of Singapore, checking for any crosspoint at which he might have encountered Charles, such as he is. He finds nothing. 

“Your favourite season?” Two asks, continuing that great British favourite of conversation.

Six inhales, ponderously, and swats with purpose at an insect that threatens to smack him in the face as he climbs the increasingly steep hill. He misses. Generally, he wants to ask Two if they’re nearly there yet, but that really should be a step too far. “I like winter,” he says, finally, thinking that to give an answer to this most innocuous of questions is, for once, better than shying around it. “I like the turn of the year.”

“Interesting,” Charles says, with such an unnecessarily bright expression that Six wonders if he might, after all, have given away something he didn’t intend to. 

The amount of doublethink, triplethink, endless back and forth at the heart of it all is exhausting. But, Six reminds himself, he has not yet lost his mind, despite the many great and terrible things to which he has been subjected. There’s no reason to struggle with it now, on a walk - climb? - which is, after all, taking him somewhere new, an event he’s truly come to relish. Not all of the Number Two figures he’s met thus far have taken him somewhere. Indeed, most haven’t taken him anywhere, much, not past a new room here, or a small patch of land at the back of somewhere there. None have taken him anywhere like this, at times, literally, by the hand.

“Here’s the crest of the hill,” Charles says, at last. “Over you go.”

That’s an odd turn of phrase, Six thinks. 

As he reaches the top, the plants and trees having some time since receded mostly to scrub, even he is moved to gasp a little. 

He hadn’t realised how high they’d come. Beneath him, to his left, the land simply falls away. A patch of ground perhaps six, eight feet wide forms the summit here, just enough space for the two of them to sit without feeling that the next gust of wind might have them crashing to their deaths on the rocks that puncture the broad, endless expanse of sea below. The sea ripples, rather than waves, and Six wonders what kind of place this is that there is no coast to speak of. To his right, the cliff face - it can only be a cliff face, surely - takes a sharp upturn, a wall of perhaps twenty feet stretching directly up, unscaleably smooth and at the height of this, there is a curious sight of grass poking out in fronds from a wire fence, which looks to wish to keep something in above, rather than out from below. Above and around this, there is only the sky.

It is a most peculiar spot. Six steps back to lean against the rock wall, bracing himself a little, as he takes in the vast emptiness, the way the sky and sea are so grey today that he can’t distinguish the horizon, where they meet.

He looks at Charles, pink and out of breath, endearing, in his shirt and cords, and, yes, a touch out of place, if anything can be out of place in this tightly-controlled environment. "Here we are then?" he confirms.

"Just...settling a moment..." No. 2 offers, apparently telling the truth.

"I won't wait long..." Erik says, folding his arms and feeling the sun wrap itself warm around the back of his black blazer. In nicer times he'd divest himself of his clothes and seriously contemplate a scenic high dive, or at the very least a gentle spot of sun-worship. But not today. "The important things?"

It occurs to Six that No. 2 does seem genuinely nervous. Sweat continues to bead at his temples, and he pushes it back into his foppish hair continously. "I have to tell you..." he says, eyes darting all around, expecting, even now, to be observed. 

Six taps his toe on the ground. 

"I don't know what you-" Two begins, and then, drowningly-loud, a roar echoes about them. 

Six can't contain his rolling laughter. "Quick!" he shouts, "If it's more important that I know, then now's your chance!"

Charles' mouth is open with fear, and Erik doesn't need to turn around to know what it is that's behind them. He does it all the same, once it becomes clear that Two isn't going to reward all their effort with any further commentary, important or otherwise, Erik allows himself some more laughter, bitter, and tired.

He's liked this Two.

"I'm going to presume sticking a tie pin into this isn't going to do the trick..." Charles says, as Rover begins its loping, leisurely bounce towards them, flolloping over treetops and at times, apparently thin air, its grim, echoing howl surrounding them with all the dread and threat appropriate to a fast-approaching apparently sentient weather balloon with the power to chase and _absorb_ its targets if they resist.

"I've yet to see anyone successfully fight it off."

"So we aren't even going to try?"

"They didn't give you Rover 101 before sending you here?" Six asks, exhausted of second-guessing Two and his must-be passive aggressive tactics. He doesn't seem to know any more about this place and his ways than Six himself - indeed, when it comes to it, it seems as if he knows infinitely less. Since he's been here, Six has seen Rover in many a situation, from the bizarre (the group of keepers staring at it through heavy sunglasses in a back garden in the centre of the night) to the virtually playful - gently nosing him back to his chamber when he's not exactly where The Powers That Be would like him to be. 

Still, since his first day in the Village, when he saw, or seemed to see (caveats are endless) a would-be escapee smothered by the...thing...he's learned that Rover is worth obeying - or fleeing - unequestioned.

"Erik, it's not stopping..."

"It won't kill us. Not unless we try to fight it. Or, rather, it won't kill me."

"As ever, you utterly fail to reassure me..."

"The man you claim to have known seems to have been terribly unreliable..."

Charles thinks about this for a second, but his answer is lost as Rover takes another bounce, higher, this time, right up to the edge of the space in which they're sat. He tries to copy the way Erik sits, calmly, as if nothing about this were to be feared. 

"Hello, Rover," Six says, genially as if it were another number from the Village interrupting them. "Are we too far from your watch?" 

Rover bounces, once, twice, wobbles, and issues forth another demonic roar. 

"No, no I don't like it, Erik..."

Six wonders for a moment if Charles will try and hide behind him, so spineless does he appear at this moment. The phrase "Be a man," comes to mind, but he doesn't bother with it.

Rover roars again. 

"If you want us to head back down, you'll have to move out of the way," Six offers, getting to his feet. 

Rover bounces, as if that's not, actually, what it wants at all. It edges forward a pace, directly in front of them, and then it pushes between them, forcng them apart. Rover's surface is dry but with the texture of viscosity, and Six is convinced it will have stuck to him as he hastens backwards, climbing down from the ledge they were at, for fear of losing his footing and suffering a fall.

"Number Two?" he calls up, unable to see anything. "Two?"

From up above him, Rover unleashes a peal of shrieking sounds, culminating in one final roar, and then, nothing. 

Silence.

Just the wind in the trees, and the sound of Six's heart thumping in his chest. 

"...Charles?" he calls up, the name falling still unfamiliar from his tongue.

Silence. 

He hoists himself back up, expecting to see a smug Rover, and a potentially unconscious Number Two, penalised, perhaps, for bringing him up here, out of bounds, or for engaging in conversation that is off some kind of limit. 

Instead, he sees only empty space. 

No Rover. 

No Number Two. 

Footmarks in the dust; signs of a scuffle...leading off the edge of the cliff. Six moves forwards, cautiously, and stares down the cliff face. 

Far, far below, three white dots bumble across the rippling tide. In their midst, borne shorewards, unmistakably Charles' body. 

Six feels a shout choke his throat, and he stares, looking for any sign of life. There's no way any man would survive a fall into flat water from this height...but Rover might have simply...gathered him, taken him down, perhaps he was caught by the flock of them that carry him, now, back to the Village. 

He looks up, behind him, to the higher, fenced-off area, and decides against trying to beat the sheer rock surface and scrabble into something more than likely electrified, almost certainly designed to prevent breach. 

All he can do is head back down. 

As he works back over the conversation they'd had before Rover intervened, he's struck with an anxiety he hasn't felt...at least in the duration of the time he's spent here. It's tied to something, it's made of something...intangible, distressing. 

The path back down seems less treacherous, more direct than it did on the way up. At every turn, Six finds he still expects to be confronted by something, someone, whether Charles, Rover, or some new threat, but there's no-one. 

As he nears the edge of the Village, he enters cautiously, but no-one pays any more or less attention to him than usual. Numbers 27 and 103 are playing their usual game of backgammon outside the Town Hall. Number 55 is sweeping her doorstep. And Number 49 is sat, as he has been every time 6 has seen him in recent weeks, by the fountain, smoking a cigar. As ever, 6 feels the man's eyes following him as he walks through the square, but, still, neither make any further move to acknowledge each other than they have done on any other day.

The door to Six's home swings open, automatically welcoming as ever. 

Six throws his jacket off, peels off his turtleneck, and splashes his face gratefully with cold water, trying hard to keep the distant image of Charles' body being carried away, god only knows where. 

What. pray tell, will his next challenge be?  
___________

"I'm trying," Charles splutters into the phone, convinced he's still got half a gallon of water in his lungs that really oughtn't to be there, but unable to hack it up as he'd like. "Please," he tries, clearly receiving no sympathy from his apparent superiors, "please. Just tell me what it is that you think I can do in this state. I've tried everything I know. Everything."

He's silent for a time as he listens to the response.

Suddenly angered, he shakes his head, hair still plastered wet to his face, a string of seaweed woven in at the back. "But I...I don't understand... _why have you made me this way_...no, no...no, I can't...I don't know what you're talking about, I'm sure..."


	5. Whose Side Are You On?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's breakfast time, and there's a newcomer on the way. Questions are raised and answers both are and aren't given.
> 
> _____
> 
> I know it's been a while, but I haven't forgotten it!

 

_Your presence is humbly requested._

_Number 2, The Green Dome._

 

Number Six has a mind not to go at all, but this slip of pastel green notecard, perfectly textured and scallop-edged, irritates him into immediate action. Just as Number Two surely expected it to. Of course, even if he didn’t go, that too would have been expected, and something equally stupid and twee would certainly have turned up next.

He wonders how this new Number Two will be, if he - or she, of course, some of the most difficult have been female; discount nothing, prepare for everything. This card, though, is not the most dynamic start. A shame, really. He rather liked the last Two, in a way he hasn’t been drawn to any of the others. Felt they’d really only just got started. Still, the old Number Two there hadn’t seemed to know how to play his own game: what had appeared to be tactics, quite uncommonly punished there.

Erik runs the card between thumb and forefinger, taking in the texture of it, remembering the time when his hands were useful for so much more than everyone else’s. It is less painful to recall than it used to be, but no less angering. The weight of metal at his command, it had a gravity that he could sense and appreciate, that he could attach to his own being, could wield at any time to better anyone.

There are fuzzed edges to those memories, times and places he can’t recall, things he doesn’t entirely have at his command when he recalls times he used his powers to great effect, times he worked with them under command, and of his own volition, too. The thing with the Village, though, is that there isn’t time to worry about what you can’t remember, what seems dim or far away, because everything is so far away and distant that every shred of clarity must be treasured and prized…and then filed far away in the mind. Not forgotten, and always as accessible as possible, but filed away.

The morning is bright, the sun beats down incredibly warm for March, which is what the flip-calender informs him it is, in bold red figures that defy argument. Erik takes the dates, like so much else, at face value. The way he feels each morning varies so wildly, with so few possible variants to his mind, that he is almost certain that his sleeping, and his perception of time, is thoroughly engineered. To what end, it could be anything from hoping to encourage him to perceive that he has been here for years, to simply trying to disorientate him. Regardless, the best thing for Six to do, to his mind, has always been to accept it as the case, and to move on. Pick your battles. There are so many to fight.

The Green Dome is as it always is.

The doors slide and buzz as they always do.

Number Two is curled up in his chair like a tired cat. Number Two seems a little more dishevelled than they usually do, on first meeting. At the sound of the door, and appearance of Six, he starts and begins to unfold.

It is the same Number Two.

Charles.

That’s interesting.

“I received your letter,” Six says, producing it, muting his surprise at the level of appearance, holding the card still tight between his fingers, and then disrespectfully casting it to one side. It flutters down to the floor.

The Butler appears, and collects it with a long-handled litter collection tool that either extended from his sleeve, or was, somehow, right at the ready, already, with anticipation. He tidies it into a black bin liner that, too, comes from nowhere, and then he recedes into his own distance, so clearly out of sight and conversation that Six does not acknowledge what just happened, and even in his own mind finds the occasion deleted.

“And arrived so promptly,” Two says. “That’s good of you.”

“I didn’t expect to see you again,” Six admits, because he’s beyond curious. “Rover seemed rather unhappy with our last tête-à-tête.”

Two chews at his lips for a moment. “Indeed.”

“Did it hurt?”

Two swallows, and moves on. “I did bring you here for a reason.”

“Oh good! I thought it was one of those irritatingly pointless conversations designed to wear me down. Are you sure you don’t want to talk about your near-death experience with me a little more though? You’d seemed so keen to bond, before. No breakfast today? Champagne?”

“Champagne?” Two says, pushing hair from his face, all the appearance of nerves about him. “I…could really use…don’t think we’ll have any…I think perhaps…” and he dissolves into half-words.

Erik raises his hand in the time-old gesture of stop, reassuring, it should be, on the outside, automatically comes to him, but still, the gesture, for him, is that touch more, that bit of, I used to be able to command elements, and this is no longer who he is. But he is still in control of himself, and he can still take the power in this situation. That’s what that gesture is.

He wonders if even having to run that path of thought shows him that the cracks are forming. He has had many occasions to double-think actions, circumstances, words and games, but he has rarely had the inclination, or visceral happening of his thoughts that involve the questioning of his very self in that way, in the change and shift from who he was, to who he is, the suggestion being that the changes could yet be permanent.

That this might be permanent.

“I brought you here today to…w…tell you about a new recruit, someone who’s coming to join us.”

“A shame. I thought we were just getting cosy.”

Two’s face reddens like a man who’s had rather his fill of whisky. “Yes…er…he’s got…he’s quite important. He’s coming to…”

“Test me, beat me, drug me, woo me, all with the aim of finding out why I resigned?”

“In a nutshell.”

“I see.”

“He’s quite different from us.”

“Right.

“I just…wanted to let you know.”

“By formal invitation.”

“…yes. I thought after the events that unfolded at our last meeting, it might be a good idea.”

“But you’re not going to offer me breakfast? I came straight here, you know.”

Two appears a little taken aback by this. He is - he hadn’t expected Erik to volunteer to spend any further time with him at all. Perhaps the threat of the newcomer has had some effect, after all. Or perhaps he wants more information.

He won’t get it.

Charles knows a lot of things about the newcomer, he’s sure he does, all kinds of things, but why he’s coming, why him, why now, and why not as the new number Two, rather than as this additional figure, he really can’t imagine.

Six continues, with the best pass he has for a smile on his face. “Two eggs, three minutes. Two toast, granary. Butter, not margarine. Marmalade, if possible.”

Two looks around Six for the Butler, who is present and correct. “Did you get that? Bacon, for me please. And a bottle of the finest, if we have it.”

The Butler nods.

“Could we eat somewhere less…metal?” Number Two asks.

“I don’t know what you mean, I’m sure, but it’s your home. We’ll take breakfast wherever you wish.”

“I’d like that.”

“I hope our little friend won’t mind if we go somewhere more comfortable together, again.”

Charles feels a sense of warmth, and then confusion, as he wonders if Erik’s referring to the newcomer, and then realises that he means Rover, and the shiver the memory of Rover’s loping advance brings back to him is audible.

“It’ll be fine, I’m sure…” he says, absently, sureness increasingly absent from his tone.

Number Six notes that this Two is doing a very fine impression of a man who is so far from in control of things. Such a contrast to his predecessors. It raises still more questions about Number One, of course, but after all this time, anything new is to be treasured.

He unfolds himself from the chair, and all but takes Six by the hand to lead him out of the room, and down the corridor, out, into the lobby. Chairs and a small table nestle by a window that overlooks the centre of the Village, the terrace and pool, a scene that has yet to bustle, but does show signs of normal morning life. Errands, of the sort people so often do, people on their way to and from the shop, several kinds of exercises being performed, that one might see outside on a breezy morning on several different continents.

Two takes a seat, and no sooner has Six done the same than the breakfast appears, brought to them with the tiresome level of perfection that every action, from smallest to largest, will have here, if permitted.

“Our newcomer,” Six says, between mouthfuls. “Will I know him?”

“I…er…”

“Do you know the answer?”

“Yes…no.”

“Excellent! Goodness, I’m rather warming to you. This complete lack of authority is most refreshing!”

Two colours red again, and takes a sizeable swallow of champagne. He looks up at Six, and his eyes seem strained, as if under pressure from within. Two’s fingers raise to his temple, and the redness increases. The man looks like he has quite the headache.

“Deep breath,” Six says, with the sound of one who is expressing at least professional concern. “Steady on.”

Two’s face scrumples up in irritation, and a low growl escapes his lips.

“Eat your toast,” Six says. “I don’t want to see what Rover might do to you in here.”

Number Two puts down his fork. “I wish you’d just tell them what they want to know, Erik. Tell me, rather. Tell me.”

Number Six holds off so much as raising an eyebrow at the differentiation between Two, and Them.

“If,” he says, soft as he can, “you know me half as well as you profess to, you would know that I never, ever do things for the wishes of others alone.”

“I just, then we could all…”

“Go home?”

Number Two swallows.

He says nothing.

Another thing he doesn’t know?

Six decides it’s the best for both of them if they leave the sparring at that. He drinks a glass of the champagne, but declines a second. Two looks like he needs it.

“What time is our new arrival joining us?”

“He’s not really the sort to be constrained by time…”

“That’s very helpful, thank you.” Even Two notices the way Six might just mean it.

 

__________________________________

 

 

Six makes his way down into the Village. It’s gone noon, so the Tally Ho! will be ready and waiting for him. And what magnificent insights into Village life might he learn from it today? There might, he supposes, be new classes to take. Perhaps this newcomer will be featured. At the very least, the short story - always Village-set, always bedecked with the innocence of a Sunday children’s supplement - will be as light a relief as he could hope for.

The weather really is excellent, he thinks, as the sun runs itself around his black jacket, warm as an extra blanket across his shoulders. Perhaps he’ll take a cup of the very Mediterranean coffee out here into the square and sit with the paper for a while. He’s had enough wondering and cross-consideration this morning. He could use the rest, a chance to recharge.

The shop is busy, and Six has to queue for the first time in a little while for his paper. He uses the time to eye the latest goods on offer: string, mints, and tracing paper. He has yet to find the logic to the shop, and finds it tiring that all three hold sensory memories for him from one work-based escapade and another. He pushes further contemplation of them aside.

Just in case they’re watching him for responses. At least the tracing paper has nothing to do with anything much, but even knowing what isn’t important to him will be, itself, important.

Give nothing.

Take everything.

The shopkeeper appears a touch frazzled, and initially forgets to take Six’s credits. Six reminds him, graciously. The shopkeeper even apologises.

He moves on to buy his coffee, and treats himself to a pastry. He wouldn’t usually; the issued food is sufficient, but he fully intends to pretend, for just a few moments, that he is back on the streets of somewhere else, somewhere that shares the pastel shades, and proximity to such a beautiful and quiet beach, somewhere that has all the beauty, and none of the tiresomeness.

He settles down.

This is nice.

He promises himself that acknowledging that is not the same to succumbing, rather, it is the essential behaviour of survival - to recharge, wherever possible, ready for the fight anew.

A hand is about his neck before Six has the chance to take his first bite - he is pushed backwards and upwards with such comically strong pace and force that the chance for the reflex attempt to duck, reverse the strength, take the power back is lost.

He has gone soft.

Six used to be trained for such things.

His back meets the brickwork of the shop wall with surprising rapidity, the chair he was sitting on long gone in the wake of motion of both his body, and that of the man whose hand has pushed him here.

“WHY DID YOU RESIGN.”

The voice forgets the question mark.

All around them, the village scene hits immediate pause. Mid-action, fifty-odd figures stop everything they were doing. A few look towards the scene of the disturbance, but many only freeze in their actions, as if waiting for a resolution before they continue.

Six takes a deep breath and jams his knee upwards and forwards, bringing both forearms up, crossed, heaving the assailing arm upwards. It retains its chokehold for a little longer than usual, but, as the knee makes contact with the groin of his attacker, it releases, just as it should.

Six leaps straight into the defensive pose, crouching, waiting for his attacker to become that once more, to up himself and rally the fight.

The man instead lies back, looking winded, and clutches his knees to his chest for a moment, swearing in a way Six hasn’t heard in a good long while.

After a moment or two, the inhabitants of the square resume their actions. This, it seems, was what they had been waiting for. To them, all is, apparently, resolved.

Six casts his eyes around, confused as to why, this time, no others are taking an interest. Surely this was unexpected?

“What the f-” the man says, and Number Six walks around him, looking down at him from all angles.

The badge on the man’s jacket reads, 10.

“Hello, Number Ten,” says Six.

Ten replies with something much less courteous.

 


End file.
